


I Will Wait

by ChelsaOfBakerStreet



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: And Lots of It, Heaven, M/M, Waiting, blame Mumford and Sons, but no mention of god, didn't really need it for this, seriously
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-24
Updated: 2012-10-24
Packaged: 2017-11-16 23:30:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/545019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChelsaOfBakerStreet/pseuds/ChelsaOfBakerStreet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John waited three years in Baker Street. Now Sherlock has waited for five years in a place he never knew existed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Will Wait

**Author's Note:**

> This is all thanks to 'I Will Wait' by Mumford and Sons.

John had waited three long years. This was a fact. One thousand and ninety-five days John waited, only to be rewarded for his patience on the one hundred and ninety-sixth day with the return of his detective. Sherlock had shown up on the steps of 221B sporting a beard and covered in grime and dirt, but none of these things stopped John Watson from crushing him in a hug as soon as he opened the door, a tear slipping from the corner of his eye that he had refused to acknowledge.

Now, it was Sherlock's turn to wait. Today marked the anniversary of his death. Five years, or one thousand, eight hundred and twenty-six days since he passed away and found himself strangely walking the hills much like the ones behind the Manor in a place he could only suppose was heaven.

* * *

He had died a quiet death, something he was thankful for, had lived a good life, eventually marrying John, living a dangerous life in London before they retired to the countryside where John held a small clinic for the children and Sherlock studied. John should have gone on before Sherlock, but apparently John had done his waiting and now it was Sherlock's turn.

Sherlock hated not knowing almost more than anything, but when he had opened his eyes to a blue sky and a grassy field he had been so confused to as where he was that he sat there for a good ten minutes unmoving. It wasn't until Lestrade meandered over to Sherlock, smiling widely that Sherlock started to grasp what had happened.

Lestrade looked much like he had when he and Sherlock had first met, his hair a dark shade of brown, lines erased from his face. "Hello Sherlock, glad you could finally make it."

Sherlock proceeded to blink at the figure in front of him, wondering if perhaps he was comatose in the hospital and this was the best his subconscious could come up with because there was simply no such thing as heaven.

"Of all people I dream of it's you," he sputtered finally, trying for indignant but falling short.

Lestrade gave him a soft smile. "It was hard for Mycroft to come to terms with it as well, seeing as he never was a religious man. I always had hope there was something like this for us, a place where I'd see the people I cared for again."

Sherlock stood from his position seated on the ground, brushing off his trousers and proffering his hand to Lestrade who took it, grinning again.

"Sherlock, let's walk for a bit. I take it John's still down there?"

Sherlock's eyes dimmed at the sound of John's name. "Yeah, looks like I'm doing the waiting."

"It'll be alright. It was hard for me to wait for Mycroft, but it gets easier when you learn how to attune to them, kind of see what they're doing."

"I can do that?" Sherlock brightened, following a step behind Lestrade.

Lestrade paused before continuing down the path that had suddenly appeared before him. "With practise, yes. Mycroft caught on much more quickly than I, I recon you'll do the same."

"Where are we going? Sherlock asked, noting the trees cropping up next to the path.

Lestrade laughed, "Where else? Stratford Manor of course, your father and Mummy, and Mycroft of course, are waiting for you. I volunteered to find you, figured it'd be easier on you if you didn't have facts flying at you first thing."

Sherlock nodded, quietly pondering all of this new information. "Wait, you've met my father?"

Lestrade nodded. "Yes, I got to meet the elder Holmes two days after my arrival here. Apparently Mummy sent him to welcome me."

Sherlock remembered little of his father, an aloof man who spent more time in his study and at work than with his two sons. Alastair Holmes had passed away when Sherlock was but seven, from a pulmonary problem the man had had since birth. His father had been the one to steer young Sherlock towards science, giving Sherlock an experiment set for his fourth birthday. "Does he remember me?"

"Of course. That and he watched you grow up; I think he's quite proud of you."

Sherlock's mouth set into a thin line. "Not everything, I'm sure he'll rip into me about the cocaine."

"We're all imperfect Sherlock, he forgives you, I'm sure." Lestrade stopped in front of a sprawling stone manor, gleaming in the sun, much like it had in its glory days. "Ready?"

"As I'll ever be," Sherlock grimaced, pushing open the door and walking into the foyer.

"They're all in the first floor study," Lestrade explained, falling back to let Sherlock walk through at his own pace.

Sherlock ran a hand along the large oak banister as he walked past it, the mahogany grandfather clock ticking on in the corner.

Sherlock turned into the hall, the same painting he'd ran past for years adorning the walls. He could hear distant talking and sped up a bit, wanting to see his family again. He pushed open the door to a scene that stirred memories long forgotten.

Mummy was seated on the loveseat next to his father, Mycroft sitting straight in the wingback chair near the fireplace that Sherlock used to curl up in when he was younger. A new, almost identical chair was pushed up against it, the cushion still depressed from where Lestrade had vacated it. The worn leather chair his father would sit in to read stories of Christie's great detectives sat open and inviting and Sherlock felt compelled to take it, finishing the picture of the family.

Sherlock barely noticed Lestrade reclaim the chair next to Mycroft as he studied his father's face, the man looking just as he had when Sherlock last saw him.

They sat and talked as time whiled away, there were no hours or days in heaven Sherlock found out, but once he broke through to see John again he used the days on John's calendar to mark the passing of the days. He spent god knows how long watching John mourn then heal, getting better until Sherlock was sure he had almost forgotten him. That was until three hundred and sixty-five days had passed.

On the anniversary of Sherlock's death, John hobbled to the cemetery, his limp having returned a few months after Sherlock's death, arthritis making it worse. Sherlock's soul ached to be with John, to hold him once again, but never did he wish for John to hurry and join him, wanting John to be able to live his life to the fullest.

* * *

Sherlock opened his eyes from his resting spot on the one thousand, eight hundred and twenty-seventh day of being in heaven upon hearing a solid pop and thump near him. He had been reciting chemical compounds in his head to pass away the time and sat up, looking around for the source of the noise.

He stood, glancing over the hilltop to see a figure in the distance lying on the ground. Great. Some poor soul he'd been unfortunately close enough to have to show the ropes to.

As he neared he realised the figure was wearing a familiar striped sweater and be broke out into a jog towards the man. "John?"

The figure sat up, running a hand through sandy brown hair Sherlock hadn't seen in years, clear blue eyes locking on Sherlock's as the man neared. "Sherlock? Where am I?"

Sherlock paused in front of John before dropping to his knees and pulled the man into a crushing hug, kissing him softly. "I've waited for so long; I've missed you so much."

John wrapped his arms around the slender figure, gaping in awe at the dark locks hanging around Sherlock's face. "Where am I Sherlock?" he choked out.

"Heaven. At least that's what Lestrade told me when I first arrived here five years and one day ago. I can believe it now that you're here."

"Heaven? It looks a lot like Stratford-on-Avon to me." John looked around at the soft hillside, the blue sky.

Sherlock grinned, standing and pulling John to his feet. "Come on, everyone's been waiting for you to join us, even Mrs Hudson who'd been staying with Mrs Turner for years and didn't know Mycroft and Lestrade had arrived, too busy keeping an eye on me she said."

"You've waited for me all this time?" John said, taking Sherlock's hand as they started making their way to the Manor.

"I will wait for you. For forever, which oddly enough is how long we have."

And with that, heaven's only consulting detective and his trusty doctor reacquainted themselves with one another and everyone they had missed.


End file.
